What Friends Are For
by Nobodyknowsmenow
Summary: A somewhat sequel to 'to have a friend'. Faramir needs help; will the King be able to help him? PG 13 for self harm.
1. Default Chapter

Authors note;

Anyway, this is a somewhat sequel to 'To have a friend' due to the overwhelming response on FF .net to that story, I have written this. I may or may not be able to churn out a third one.

I hope you enjoy this. Please review, I don't know what to write if I don't know what people would like…

BTW, please, no removing my head for not knowing much about Mettare or anything like that. Sorry if I am wrong!

The little song is part of Fefe Dobson's 'Revolution Song', I did not write it.

What Friends Are For

Faramir blew on his fingers to warm them. He grinned wryly as he saw his breath. So long as the ink did not freeze he would live with the cold.

Fires made him nervous.

"Lord Steward?" Faramir leapt like a scalded cat, complete with yowl. Aragorn laughed heartily at Faramir's expression.

"My lord, you should give me warning when you come in! Please! Two rangers working together may not be such a good idea. You constantly sneak about."

"Well, this is MY office, too! And you sneak, too, like a kitchen cat!" Aragorn said with a grin. "What are you doing? It's mettare!"

"I _know _what day it is, Aragorn." Faramir said, going back to work. Oh, if only the letters would stop moving so much! His eyes were playing tricks on him again… He rubbed them tiredly.

"So… why are you working still? It's a national holiday! No one is working!"

"I am." Faramir replied coldly. "Or I was." 'trying' he added mentally.

Aragorn raised his eyebrows. Faramir was hiding something, he just knew it! Whenever he acted like this he was trying to protect himself from pain. "Why?" He asked.

"Does it MATTER to you what I do on my OWN time?" Faramir snapped, adding "My lord." almost as an afterthought.

"I am only worried about you, my _friend_." Aragorn said mildly.

"Don't bother. All I want to do is just do something."

"I see." Aragorn watched for a moment. "So…do you always work through Mettare?"

Faramir's quill stopped. "Yes." He said without looking up, and he began to write again, desperately. "Always." He said so softly Aragorn almost did not hear him.

"All right, fine." Aragorn said. "But if you want some company, the queen and I are just having a quiet celebration in our private hall. No fuss or anything, just time with family and friends. Feel free to come and join us."

"Thank you, but I can not. Business. I would appreciate if you could make my apologies to the queen." Faramir replied, weeping inside.

Family. What family did he have left? He hated the bitter feeling he had whenever the king or anyone reminded him of family. Why did they have to mention _family _just when he was feeling comfortably numb again?

He felt guilty, but he was jealous; the King had Arwen and his brothers; but Faramir did have Eowyn; just she was in Rohan until the Spring wedding, and, well, it was winter. So, he felt quite effectively alone.

Aragorn shrugged, and left. His stomach was flopping, and he did not know why. He decided not to press his friend.

He just knew something was wrong.

That night, after the lights were out, and he had stared at the ceiling for a full twenty minutes, Aragorn sighed. "Arwen, would you mind if I…"

"Go to check on Faramir?" Arwen smiled into the darkness. "Of course not. Just… try to understand what he is going through, and what's going on. Be patient."

Aragorn frowned as he dressed warmly. Arwen knew something.

Something was wrong, he could feel it. He ran to his office, it was empty, and there was a fire in the hearth. He glanced at the desk where Faramir had been working, smiling at the large pile of completed work, and then his brow creased. That parchment… THAT was no army requisition slip!

What?

He looked at the parchment, and smiled to see his Steward's precise handwriting.

"_In my dreams, I break the chains that hold this place together…_

_But in my dreams the consequences would be so much better…_

_Than they are… _

_Because beyond the walls that hold us here, there're skies that stretch across the atmosphere,_

_Oh, a revolution is near!" _

Where in perdition was the little blighter? He folded the paper and thrust it into his pocket.

He pushed open the door to Faramir's private quarters, and shivered as he felt the cold air. He entered, and saw Faramir seated in the open window, silhouetted against the starry sky, a naked blade in his hands.

The man seemed almost in a trance; he was wearing only his breeches and boots, and he was not shivering even though snow was falling through the window onto his bare flesh. Judging from the melted snow on the floor, he had been there a long while.

"Faramir!" Aragorn gasped, darting forward just in time to stop the blade from slicing into his friends pale wrist. Faramir started as one coming from a dream.

A very bad dream it must be, Aragorn thought.

"Lord Aragorn!" Faramir choked. "Please…" He was shivering now, uncontrollably. "Please, help me. I'm scared." His voice was soft, broken.

Aragorn shivered. Faramir had barely asked him to pass the salt. He never asked anyone for anything, and now he was begging for help. The king would not deny him, though he did not quite understand what Faramir needed him for. He just knew he was needed.

"Please, Aragorn. I c-can't…" Faramir whispered, and the king took him into his arms, gently cradling the slender body against his broad chest. The Steward was much too light, much too thin. Aragorn could count his ribs and the bones of his back stood out as well.

"Cry." Aragorn said softly. "There is no shame in it, little brother, and it shall ease you."

Faramir wept now, his shoulders shaking, and Aragorn felt a trickle of warm stickiness flow onto his shirt. "Fara, did you already cut yourself?" He asked gently. The dark head bowed.

"_Uma_." Was the whispered reply in elvish.

Aragorn laid the man on the bed, and ripped material from the pillow case and sheet to bind the cuts in his arm and his ribs. He touched his brow, shaking his head at the heat he found, though he shook from chill.

"I'm sorry." Faramir whispered.

"No need. What are friends for?" Aragorn asked as he lit a fire in the cold hearth.

"Not for this." Faramir said firmly, watching him with glittering eyes. "Never for this."

"Then what are they for then? Friends share the good times as well as the bad, Faramir."

"I couldn't stop myself." Faramir whispered. "But it hurt, it hurt so badly! Please, forgive me."

"_Forgive you_?" Aragorn asked. "I am not the person to ask that!"

Faramir bowed his head, curling in on himself, and Aragorn felt pity for the younger man. He looked so small and vulnerable… "Why?" He asked, nodding at the knife, and Faramir hung his head.

"Because."

"That is part of a reason, _mellon nin_. Why?"

"Because it hurt!"

"Of course it did, you idiot, it was a knife, blast it all!" Aragorn scolded without heat, and lessened the sting of his words by stroking Faramir's soft brown hair gently. Sweat from his fever made his hair damp. Lifting his friend again, he tucked him warmly into bed, and lay down next to him on top of the blankets. "Why, Faramir?"

"When I hurt myself, or someone hurts me, I can't feel it hurt inside." Faramir whispered. "One pain lessens the other."

"Death lessens it all." Aragorn was chilled, and he grabbed Faramir's chin roughly in his fear and anger, and yanked his head up to meet his stern gray eyes. "Faramir, when I came in… were you about to end it? Answer me!" He shook his friend harshly. "What the udun were you doing? Where you going to slit your wrist, you cursed little fool?"

Faramir's eyes met Aragorn's fully. They were swimming with unshed tears of pain, remorse, fear and guilt. "I wanted to." He whispered. "More than anything." He drew away from the King, hugging himself tightly, shutting away the world. "But I couldn't."

"Why?"

"It was wrong." Faramir said with a shrug. "I knew it."

"Oh, and you thought it was all right to just cut yourself?" Aragorn asked caustically. His steward had frightened him badly! For an instant he saw what his life would be without Faramir, without the little jokes and things throughout his day that made his day bright. He saw how lonesome he would be, and knew that he would never have another friend like Faramir. He was a one of a kind jewel.

"No. I knew that too. But that at least I could stop, I could end. I could beg for forgiveness. Death is permanent, and murder is a sin."

"Murder?" Aragorn raised an eyebrow, curiously.

"To kill one's self is to murder, and if one is dead one can not ask pardon for one's sin, now can one? I will not slay myself, Aragorn. I have not the courage. Not with a knife in my own hand. I swear it to you."

"I accept your oath." Aragorn replied, feeling relieved.

"Anyway, these feelings pass. Come tomorrow I shall be back to myself, more or less."

"Less, rather." Aragorn said. "Or more, if you think scars like that add something to you."

Faramir continued. "If I can just ride out the waves, I shall ride out the storm." He looked out the window. "Just one wave at a time." He whispered. "But it is so hard to keep my head above the waters."

"Faramir." The king said softly. "Why now? There is something about Mettare that hurts you, is there not?"

"You asked me if I always worked through Mettare?" Aragorn nodded. "I lied to you.

"It was the one day of the year I could be with my family." He said. "Boromir would always work it out so we were close enough to visit, and we would get a half day's leave, or a full if we could, and we would meet. I would give him a gift, and he would give me one, too. We always knew what it was before we opened it, but we pretended to be surprised, even though the other always knew we were pretending. Still, it was part of the fun, part of the game we played. And if he had managed to make it so we were both in the City, we would go have dinner with Father, and give him our gift we had gone together to get. And he would know what it was, too, but he would pretend he had no idea, and we would be less miserable than usual and laugh together… he had such a sense of humor, had father. Did you know that?" Aragorn shook his head.

"Well, he did. He and Boromir would banter back and forth, and for once, father wasn't angry with me. And then, after the meal, we would go to his office, and I would lie before the hearth and work, and Boromir would lay by Father's feet and work, and Father would sit at his desk and work. And we would sing while we were working, sometimes. And I guess after our own fashion, we were happy, because we were together, after all." He sighed. "Boromir had the greatest baritone. I would sing the tenor harmony, and Father would sing bass. And then we would all miss mother, but not say anything, because if we did we would shame ourselves. She had the prettiest soprano any had ever heard, but she could sing anything. Her bass made father laugh, always. And Boromir would cry when he remembered, just a little, when he thought no one could see.

But I saw, I knew." Faramir whispered. "He missed her. He was lonely, but father never knew, never understood that Boromir needed companionship, needed love. He wished mother was alive. She would understand, we knew she would! But she is dead, and Father did not understand. He missed her too. No one else ever saw it, but I did. I knew, I understood, and I could have helped him had he let me. But he would accept no help. I saw he went mad the day they shoveled the frozen dirt back over her, the day she was laid to rot."

"Rest." Aragorn corrected, horrified.

"Rot." Faramir snapped back fiercely. "And don't try to correct me on that again. If you don't know what bodies do when the spirit is gone, listen to one who does. They rot. They stink. They bloat. They bring corruption and sickness to all they touch. They are dead, the spirit is gone on." Aragorn shuddered at hearing the description from his gentle steward. Sometimes the man seemed young and innocent, but he was truthfully a soldier, and that meant death was his stock in trade. He was older than his years, and he was sick; he was tired of it all. "They're gone. Perhaps the spirit is at rest, but we have naught to do with that. That is in the hands of Eru, and none other. I can not say if she is at rest or not. I do know, however, that her body has long since rotted, so I say she was laid to rot, and I mean my lady mother no disrespect when I say it." Aragorn nodded. "Anyway, my father's mind went that day, and never truly returned to him until the end, poor lord. In the very end he saw and knew what he had done, and was sorry." Faramir stared out the window. "My poor dear lord."

"You loved him very much, didn't you?" Aragorn asked.

"Oh, yes!" Faramir smiled shakily. "I loved him oh, so very, very much. He was a great man, and a good Steward."

"A dirt poor father, though." Aragorn reminded.

"I had not thought I turned out so badly." Faramir said mildly, "He was not very cruel always."

"But cruel enough to scar you for life." Aragorn growled. Understandably, he hated Denethor for all he had done to Faramir. He had seen the cruel marks from both whip and cane in Faramir's flesh, and it saddened and horrified him.

"Well; and perhaps that was not such bad thing, all being said and done." Faramir replied thoughtfully. "It has taught me patience; a virtue I do not naturally own; and also humility, another difficult virtue, and meekness, and also temperance."

"Temperance?"

"I will never drink a drop of alcohol." Faramir said. "_Never_."

"Wine and ale might actually be better for you than this infernal cutting!" Aragorn protested, and Faramir sighed.

"Anyway, for one day of the year I was not alone. Boromir was there. It wasn't so cold; it wasn't so dark; and there seemed to be enough food for once, even if all we had was just a biscuit and jerky; our voices had harmony with each other; and I felt safe; at home. But now he's gone." Faramir turned his face into the pillow and wept bitterly.

Aragorn could just hear him sob; "And now I'm cold, and it's dark, I'm hungry and I'll never be full, and nothing's safe, I can not sing, and I have no home to go to. I'm lost, and he's gone. GONE! I'm alone, and I HATE IT! _I HATE IT!_" he screamed into his pillow, pounding his mattress with his hands desperately. "It hurts, it hurts…" Aragorn caught the flailing wrists, and flipped Faramir onto his back, gazing down at the sobbing young man.

"Be still, all will be well, Fara, please, hush…" He cradled Faramir gently. "Please, everything's going to be all right, I promise!"

"How can everything possibly be all right?" Faramir whimpered. "My heart is in _pieces_. I know I must hold together and be strong for Eowyn, because she needs me, but sometimes it seems as if it would be easier and better for all if I had never been born."

"Never say that." Aragorn snapped. "Ever."

"Why not?"

"Because you are my friend, and I care about you! You must stop this cycle, Faramir, before this cycle stops you! One day you'll cut yourself just a little too deep and it will all be over! And then what? What if Eowyn were to start cutting herself? And then when she was gone, what about a child you both might have left? Or if I started to ease my pain in that fashion? Gondor would be robbed of her rulers! I will not let you do this!"

"Are you giving me the 'for Gondor' speech?" Faramir almost smiled. "I already know it by heart. _Gondor first, honor second, family third, self last_." Then he really did smile. "Oh, Aragorn…" He looked past him, out the window. "Sometimes you say exactly what Boromir would. He'll never really be gone with you here." He sighed. "I'm sorry." He repeated.

Aragorn hugged his friend. "Forgiven." They sat on the bed, staring at the flames, and for once, Faramir did not fear them, he could look without seeing Denethor catch flame.

Perhaps the time had come to let his family rest, not rot.

Perhaps… perhaps he had a new family. One just as good as the old one, but different.

Perhaps… just perhaps, he could learn to let go of the pain.

"Aragorn?"

"Faramir?"

"Help me stop?"

"Well, that _is_ what friends are for."

Please review?


	2. Chapter two

A/N. This was going to be a one shot deal, but…

Here you all go! You know I own nothing? Please review!

What Friends Do

Aragorn frowned at the parchment before him. It was a building permit in the first circle, but his mind was not on it.

Troll was snoring before the fire, his paws twitching and lips curling as he fought and hunted in his doggy dreams. No doubt he had finally managed to get that pesky kitchen cat. But the king's mind was not on him, either.

It was on the dark head bowed over the desk to his right. Faramir had been there since before Aragorn had arrived at two hours after dawn, and it was now noon. He had not spoken once, save to rise, bow, and murmur, "Good morning, my Liege."

That was all. 'Good morning, my liege.' After all that had happened the night before, 'good MORNING, my LIEGE'?

"_Ahem._" Aragorn cleared his throat. Faramir ignored him, continuing to write, his clear handwriting covering page after page.

"_Ah-HEM_!" Aragorn coughed again, and Faramir swallowed hard, staring at his paper. His hands were sweating.

"M-my lord?" Faramir raised his head and looked at Aragorn's chin. He could not bring himself to look his friend in the eyes; not after last night. Not after he had seen him so weak, so pitiful! He didn't want to see the loathing in the King's eyes.

Who wouldn't loathe him, after seeing him cut himself? After seeing him weep? What pathetic weakness!

How was he to explain that he almost never cut himself? That it was only the fifth or so time ever that he had done it, and that he only did it when it hurt too badly to endure…

"Faramir, for pity's' sake, look me in the eye, man!" Aragorn said.

'_Faramir, for goodness' sake, don't hang your head so, look me in the eye, boy!' _Faramir shook his head, and looked his King in the eye as requested.

"There. That's better." Aragorn smiled, oblivious to the fact that there was ink on his fingers, cheeks, and forehead, and also his nose! Faramir sighed and stood up. His knees protested a little, as always. The price one paid for being an aging soldier.

"My lord, please spit on your handkerchief and make use of it on your face. You look like a speckled dog!" Faramir couldn't help but grin. Aragorn smiled, and did as requested.

"Better?" he asked a moment later.

"Give it me. You missed a spot." Faramir scrubbed at the King's face ruthlessly for a moment, and then stepped back. "There. Done."

"Thank you, my friend." Aragorn said. Faramir dipped his head in response. "We need to talk." Again the dark head dipped, and the green eyes sought the floor.

"We do."

Aragorn stood up and went before the fire. It was bitterly cold out, but inside by the fire it was not so bad. "Warm your hands." Aragorn said. "They must be cold. I know mine are."

Faramir stepped a little closer to the fire, but he did not look at it. He kept his eyes on Aragorn's face as he warmed his hands, and then stepped back again to lean against his desk.

"How can I help you?"

There was the question Faramir was dreading, yet longing for.

But what was the answer?

"I do not know, Aragorn." Faramir sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I just don't know what you can do." He looked at his hand in silence. "Or even if there is anything you can do." He looked back at the King. "It's not like it's a habit or anything."

"Come to the fire again." Aragorn said quietly. Faramir stepped up, and his eyes were questioning. "Take off your shirt." Aragorn commanded. "Let me see." Faramir grimaced, feeling the muscles in his shoulder protest as he first pulled the outer robes off, then his tunic, and then the mail underneath, and then the light shirt underneath that. Aragorn's warm hand pressed on his uninjured shoulder. "Sit."

Faramir sat.

Aragorn took his right arm between his hands, looking at it carefully, tracing the white scars on it, and then did the same with his left. Last he looked at Faramir's belly and ribs. Wordlessly he tapped Faramir's leg, raising an eyebrow as he looked at the younger man. Faramir raised one shoulder, and then said, "Once, long ago." Aragorn nodded, walking to the desk, and again he saw a piece of paper that was not an army requisition slip.

_In my room, I hear the echoes of a recent battle. _

_Lost and wounded as the voices begin to settle- for the night. _

_But the words you use to hurt me now, _

_Only seem to make me strong somehow, _

_A revolution is now! _Aragorn frowned.

The second verse to that song…

"I can see it is not a habit, which is good. So much the easier for us to deal with! Faramir... this song. How does it end?" Faramir smiled.

"I will tell you someday. Not today." Aragorn stepped back, helping Faramir who was struggling with his mail. It had gotten stuck on his elbow, and would not roll down, and so his arm was bent into a very uncomfortable position. Aragorn finally ended up grabbing it in both hands and pulling, with Faramir braced against the desk.

On the last tug, the mail came down, but Faramir also came with it, and he landed atop the King. They lay on the floor, laughing at the ridiculous situation.

Faramir snickered. "What _would_ the council think?" Aragorn grinned.

"More importantly, what would Arwen and Eowyn think? Most important, what would they say?" Faramir shuddered at the thought as he got up and pulled Aragorn to his feet.

"Death." He chuckled, his eyes sparkling wickedly. "Definitely."

"Mmm, Arwen would just send me on a diplomatic mission to the dwarves."

"My lady is far more merciful." Faramir smirked, and Aragorn cuffed him lightly, laughing. Faramir was suddenly sober, and he looked at the King silently, all of the naughtiness gone from his eyes.

"What?" Aragorn asked.

"That is how you can help." Faramir said.

"What?"

"Just be there."

Aragorn swallowed against the lump in his throat. "I'll always be here for you, Fara." He whispered. "Always." Faramir hugged Aragorn tightly, and the king could hear him snuffling back tears.

"Do not promise me that." Faramir choked. "Because it is a lie."

"No, it's not!" Aragorn pulled back, looking down into Faramir's face. "I will be here for you! It's what friends do for friends!"

"I fear that I am not as good a friend as I ought to be." Faramir murmured. "Always being such a bother and fuss."

"Well, you're a good bother! And ANYTHING is better than reading this fussy stuff!" Aragorn laughed, thumbing through his stack of files.

Faramir smiled at him. "I just hope before our end I can give you a gift as great as the one you have gifted me."

"And what is Troll? Elrond's potion?" Faramir shook his head, laughing as Troll stood between them, his tongue lolling as he stared at the door.

"Well, I think 'Elrond's potion' needs to go out for a royal wee-wee!" Still laughing, they went out into the frozen garden with Troll, and watched him play in the deep snow for an hour, and joining some children in a game of snow wars.

Because that's what friends do.


End file.
